Diciembre [English translation]

If I once wrote your name next to mine on the wall,

today I come back to leave flowers under a cypress.

If your voice is no longer my teacher, not even in the art of offence,

what's the use in remembering who you were

or who I fell in love with?

If there is nothing left to talk about.

If there is nothing left to hush about,

how can it be that it hurts so much?

If it snows in hell when I remember,

if it's again Sunday when I wake up,

stay here with me by my side.

When the train of a dead story spends time on the platform,

there's a chance for the grass to grow and bury our feet.

Who cares who paid for dinner or if we owed the bill,

if the silence drew with the crumbs from the tablecloth?

If there is nothing left to talk about.

If there is nothing left to hush about,

how can it be that it hurts so much?

If it snows in hell when I remember,

if it's again Sunday when I wake up,

stay here with me by my side.

What's the point of looking at each other

if it's always December?

What's the point of crossing fingers

if you don't lie to me anymore?

Who cares if it rains?

Who cares if we get wet

if, under the umbrella,

you're not holding my arm?

Who cares who you were

if nobody replies?

What's the difference in staying awake

if you hide when you come back?

Who cares about the silence,

always so sincere,

always so attentive between you and me

when there's no remedy?